


If I Had A Voice (I'd Never Tell)

by Giggles96



Series: Amputee Will and Daddy Hannibal [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Age Regression/De-Aging, Amputation, Angst, Belly Kink, Captivity, Daddy Kink, Diapers, Disturbing Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hurt/Comfort, Infantilism, Kidnapping, Non-Sexual Age Play, Pacifier - Freeform, Restraints, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide Attempt, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4693502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giggles96/pseuds/Giggles96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will wishes he'd died when he had the chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Had A Voice (I'd Never Tell)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [telera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/telera/gifts), [trr_rr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trr_rr/gifts).



> I love Hannibal fanfic, and much as I adore reading all of the wonderful works out there, there has always been a little part of me that has felt annoyed, thinking that I'd never be able to get it right myself. So, finally, after debating for weeks, I decided to give it a go. I hope you all enjoy my first attempt, because I'm not sure how I feel about it. 
> 
> Truth is, I would never have had the guts to write this if it weren’t for these two beautiful works [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1281610/chapters/2653279) and [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/898188/chapters/1735541), specifically, along with so many others that I don't have the time (or energy) to mention. So special thanks to Telera and Trr_rr. Though, chances are, if you have written a non-sexual age-play fic in the Hannibal fandom, I've likely read it and I thank you, too. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language. ___

**IF I HAD A VOICE (I’D NEVER TELL)**

 

_Sometimes the person you’d take a bullet for ends up being the one behind the gun_

Tupac

 

For a long time, it seemed like a tragedy even as he composed a drama.

He rehearsed his lines, shielded himself with the most ragged costume, pasted on a blinding smile and waited for his laugh track.

He was acting a part, playing a play of plays. The show must go on - and, by God, he did. Pity, then, nobody else ever got the joke.

Then along came Hannibal.

Enthused, Will threw himself into familiarizing with the cardboard, cut-out scenes and the cherry-picked pots of scarlet paint, shared with Hannibal this delicious work of art and mouthed the words of an impromptu script. Not knowing he’d reserved the best seat.

Paid extra and everything.

He indulged in the flawless execution of this genius, rousing performance, and _danced, danced, danced,_  like a puppet on strings. It was magnificent.

He bowed. Hannibal clapped.

Will basked in the standing ovation, but it was never long before their roses were dying.

Then suddenly, one day, the credits rolled, the curtains closed, yet Will was adamant that if life were a comedy, he would have the last laugh.

**…**

Hannibal stretches the youngster's fuzzy, baby blue blankie over his shoulders to ensure he's cosy and snug, and sweeps his lips over Will’s crown.

“Daddy can’t lose you, baby.” He’s in the middle of one of his late-night ramblings, the third this week. “Do you understand? Daddy doesn’t know what he‘d do without you.”

His spine bulges underneath his thin, fleece sleeper - skinny, gaunt, sickening. His cheekbones are piercing, his wrists could snap in half. The ugly, jagged stitching that runs so close to the vein - hastily healing lesions that are jarring in their viciousness, red layered on top of white - looks like the only thing keeping his hands from falling right off.

“I never believed you to be selfish, Will. I never thought you capable of this.”

Dr. Lecter traces the hideous scarring with one meticulous finger. His devotion to these single wounds is astonishing. He is fervent, reverent, fanatical. He ghosts gentle kisses over the raised bumps like Will will die if he doesn’t.

“You are so beautiful, baby. So beautiful…Why did you have to ruin yourself? Why couldn’t you have come to me before things got so dreadful?”

The irony hits his stomach like a punch.

Silly Will.

Silly, Big boy Will. So careless with his big boy knife.

The only monsters he’d cared about were the ones he could feel - in here - breathing inside and all around him. He hadn’t thought to look beside him.

“You’ll never leave Daddy now, will you?” Hannibal smiles, and the traces of mania that clouds his eyes is enough to make Will’s blood turn cold, “No, you won’t. Oh, no, you won’t.” He tickles his hipbone and his grin widens as Will tries to writhe away.

“You’re here to stay, aren’t you, dear? No more dogs or crime scenes or consultations for you. Perfect, isn’t it? Daddy was never fond of sharing you, anyway.”

The manner in which he begins to massage the ex-profiler’s scalp could easily be construed as comforting. But Will can’t think like that. Can’t think at all, really. With the drugs pumping through his system, giving everything a soft, misty sheen.

 _Does_  Hannibal care, though? That's the million dollar question. The trick question, with no right answer.

It's not something he lies awake at night pondering.

He doesn't have dreams, he's only capable of nightmares. He doesn’t see the best in people, not anymore, not since he was duped so thoroughly. Hannibal’s morally bankrupt, a despicable man. He exploits others' weaknesses and preys on their fears, voracious for entertainment, for something to slake the hunger that consumes him.

He's the devil's reincarnation, robbing innocents of their souls without faltering, and never bothering to conceal the contempt which he wears in the form of rare, passing smiles for the nobodies that he fools on a daily basis.

He is callous, abominable, utterly repugnant - a fiendish villain to spark a gruesome fairytale.

Are monsters sentiment beings? Does the devil need love to balance the hate? Is the villain more than a means to an end?

Will doesn't toss and turn thinking about it.

**…**

Where his legs have gone, he doesn’t know.

_Back to the woods, out to Wolf Trap, nestled amongst his dogs, where they mistook one for a bone._

_They could be wandering around his old life, lost and alone, searching for their other half. Looking for him just like everybody else. Perhaps they called for help. Maybe they saw Jack._

_He remembers he used to sleepwalk. Maybe they took off while he was dreaming. But why would they leave the rest of him behind? Why wouldn’t they give him some warning?_

_Don’t they know how much he needs them? Don’t they know he can’t do this without them?_

They must have taken off while he was dreaming.

It’s the only explanation why they weren’t there when he woke up in the morning.

**…**

On the days when the pain is excruciating and rage tunnels his vision, when the pathetic stubs long for something more and the grief threatens to bury him whole, Dr. Lecter is always there to guide him.

Snatch him up and yank him back to his loving fantasy of their twisted reality.

Will _howls._

He scratches at his mouth until it’s raw. Claws at the soft tissue of his lips. Smearing red and tasting copper and sobbing harder.

On these days, Hannibal takes Will by the shoulder and draws him into a hug. Restrains him. Surrounds him in the tightest of embraces and squeezes, as if trying to push all his separate parts back together, not realising that one of those missing pieces is gone forever. Tries to clutch the chaos and squish it into something manageable.

The task seems impossible.

Hardly noticeable at first, Hannibal begins rocking, and, to Will’s utter mortification, he feels the anguish clotting his insides unravelling. Sensing his heartbeat slow and his breaths even out, Hannibal keeps it up, warm and disconcertingly soothing.

If Will had known that his failed suicide attempt would land him here instead of the psychiatric hospital, he would have slashed that much faster.

**_…_ **

Hannibal reaches for the hem of his pants.

Will bats weakly at the invasive hands and exclaims, "No! No, stop! Please, Hannibal. _Please_ , don’t."

“I fear I must apologise, Will, for I have revoked your privilege to say no.”

“Hannibal-”

“It’s Daddy, Will,” he repeats, coldly, before cramming the pacifier gag into his mouth and resuming his movements.

**…**

Sometimes he pictures blood seeping from underneath Hannibal’s lolling head, a bullet lodged deep into his skull, brains leaking knowledge. He always had a pretty decent shot. It’d be nice to put it to use.

He imagines slicing the delicate tissue of his throat, envisions ripping open his stomach-

_'Daddy, Daddy! Stop! S-stop it!' he shrieks, kicking his short stumps, 'No more. No more!'_

_'Why?' he grins, leers, 'I thought my baby boy loved when I blow raspberries?'_

_Another breathy gust on his exposed navel and breathless, gurgling laughter. Hands press and push and caress, lovingly roaming over the little mouldable pouch of his tummy._

_He’s going to be sick. Especially when teeth graze his bellybutton and he feels the first kiss._

-and fishing out the insides, brutal, crimson entrails. He wants to _take_. Because look what’s been _taken_ from him.

Will wants to scream, cuss, kick, throw the most epic of epic fits. He wants to do something - _anything._  
But he can't. The pain is too great.

So he stares vacantly, silently, hugging his own limbs. Or, what’s left of them. He grips his forearms and reveals in the sensation of nails digging into hot flesh - as he will, for as long as he can.

**…**

“You are not well today, are you, Will?”

His arms are locked around his shoulders.

“Being held captive by a violent psychopath will do that to you.” Two, three words are usually allowed. Four, if he’s pushing his luck.

He doesn’t speak much.

Today is the exception. Today, he doesn’t give two shits.

“Now, now,” Hannibal tuts as he pulls the blinds and light floods the nursery, “No need to snipe. I am simply voicing concern for your well-being. Perhaps you might benefit from a change of scene? It has been far too long since you have left the house. Your skin is remarkably pale.”

“I wonder whose fault that is.”

“Will.”

“Sorry.” He is not the least bit sorry. “But, honestly…don’t expect me not to be resentful, Hannibal. I think that‘s pushing the boat out a little too far, wouldn’t you agree?”

It says enough about these scarce pardons that he doesn’t immediately correct him.

_Daddy._

“I apologise that you feel that way, Will. I truly am. However, need I remind you…my hands were tied. I only did what I thought was best.”

Will snorts. “For me?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Always.”

“I find that hard to believe. Hacking off perfectly healthy limbs sounds pretty drastic to me. And sick, at that. Should be the last resort. Though, I suppose…in _your_ case….who knows? It probably was.”

“If you could not be trusted to act accordingly, then, yes,” Hannibal remarks, ever-so-poised, “It was a necessity. A rather unfortunate one, certainly. But a necessity, nevertheless. ” He wears dark slacks and a complementary waistcoat. A neat pocket square adorns his breast pocket. His tie is cornflower blue.

Everything about him screams authority.

It makes Will nauseous. “My methods may seem extreme and unsavoury at times, but you cannot argue with the results. You are here, are you not? Otherwise unharmed, if I may hasten to add. It is more than I can say about before, when left to your own devices and the avid exploitation of Jack.”

“I think I did just fine.”

Hannibal has the audacity to _chuckle_. “I’d venture I am not the only one who would care to disagree about that, dear Will. Fine is a somewhat ambiguous term, I’ll give you that. Though I do wonder, by what definition, however inexact, is succumbing to suicidal thoughts ‘fine,’ Will? You should be grateful I intervened when I did.”

But he’d never have _been_ suicidal if he hadn’t…hadn’t-

Bile rises at the memory.

If Will’s stomach hadn’t grumbled. If he hadn’t swung open the door of his refrigerator, hadn’t stared at those perfect little containers lining the shelves, thoughtful little tokens from his friend, debating what to eat next.

“You want me to _thank_ you?” Will spits, incensed. His eyes snap up in disbelief.

“Not in so many words. Although a little less open animosity would be much appreciated.”

“Oh, go _fuck_ yourself.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Seeing as I am in such a generous mood, given this stunning, sun-drenched morning, and since it is quite clear you are in low spirits, I will let that one slide for today, Will,” Hannibal replies at last. “In future, believe me, I will not be so lenient.”

His displeasure is visible in the downward slanting of his chin, the blank note to his tone, a whole octave lower, the delicate tightening around his mouth. His eyes are dead.

Will recognises the combination for what it is - thinly-veiled annoyance, liable to detonate with the lightest of contact and programmed to obliterate everything within a ten foot radius. But he can’t seem to bring himself to care. Not yet.

“Now,” Hannibal gets back to business, “Would you be partial to a trip outside or shall I postpone it for another day?”

“To your backyard?” Will mutters, nose wrinkling with disdain. “With you? Yeah, I think I’ll pass.”

“Is there any particular reason you object so strongly to the suggestion?”

Will bites back the urge to make a cutting remark about how abhorrent he finds the idea of spending any further time with the man than he absolutely must. He’s feeling reckless, yes. But even he’s not _that_ stupid.

“No,” he answers, licking his lips, “I just don’t want to.”

“That is not a sufficient reason, Will. Unless you can provide one, we will be going outside. I believe the fresh air will do you the world of good.”

“No.”

“Will…”

“I said no!” he snaps, then waits for the regret, but it doesn’t come. The words spill from his lips like vomit. “I don’t want to lounge out on your lawn, I don’t want to play happy families in the sun. I don’t want to step out of that back door via someone’s else’s foot, I don’t want to leave without actually leaving.” _For good._

If he leaves this hellhole, he wants it to be on his own terms.

Hannibal nods stiffly, gingerly clears his throat.

“Alright,” he concedes, “Have it your way. I will not force the issue.” Then he‘s pulling the blinds once more and darkness is ravaging the nursery and there‘s nothing Will can do but lie there in the wretched glow of the nightlight. “Why don’t you rest for another little while? I will return soon with your morning bottle.”

“Whatever.” He rolls over to face the wall, or tries to. Only his head moves.

Hannibal sighs.

“Daddy didn’t want to hurt you, sweetheart. But you left him no choice.”

**…**

Will misses his bed back at Wolf Trap. For days now, he’s been strapped in this adult-sized crib, where it’s warm and comfortable and intimate. He itches under the river of blankets, damp patches of perspiration plague his childish attire, tears matt his lashes together.

Hannibal sits beside him, reading aloud in his native tongue and stroking his hot cheeks through the bars, brushing away residual moisture.

Will pinches his eyes shut and pretends he’s sprawled out across his threadbare mattress with the creaky springs, doing his best to drown out Hannibal’s rich, accented voice and the featherlike fingers caressing the side of his face. Back home, back in his old bed, he can finally relax.

It's hard and it feels like lying on a cradle of rocks. But even he can't believe how much he misses it sometimes. With nothing but endless time stretched out before him, Will lists the things he misses most.

His dogs, naturally, come first.

\- His strays.  
\- Fishing.  
\- Chocolate ice-cream.  
\- Boats/boat maintenance.  
\- Lecturing.  
\- Alana.

It takes a long time, but eventually, he adds:

\- His Hannibal.

More than anything, Will realises, he misses not knowing.

**…**

He dreams of Hannibal labouring away in a slaughter house, decked out in a glistening white apron and latex gloves that snap when he yanks them on. He likes to linger around the meat grinder. Watch them turn to pureed, gory mush.

Screamless, faceless red, bald frowns, and toothpicks for bones.

Sometimes he splits them straight down the middle, bleeds them dry, disembowels the discourteous nobodies, who spit out teeth instead of swear words.

He carves out swollen, slippery masses of stomach, funnels out intestines, spleen, and liver, hands submerged in thick, black, bloody guts, that he brings to his lips and samples afterwards.

It’s messy, it’s grisly.  
  
It never strikes him as horrific until the exact second he wakes up screaming.

**…**

The first time Hannibal returns home to discover that Will has somehow evaded the chunky straps of his harness, climbed out of the crib and is currently in the thick of dragging himself along the coarse carpet, he doesn’t look taken aback.

Hannibal’s cool expression doesn’t shift. He only stares down at Will’s sagging form, arms giving out, with a vague touch of disapproval, and that, in itself, is terrifying enough.

He doesn’t utter a single word, merely takes hold of the youngster under the armpits and lifts him up. While Will pants and tries to catch his breath, he slips a finger down the back of his diaper to check if it’s dry, and then immediately heads towards the changing table. Silently, he grabs a diaper from the small stack on hand and lies the boy down on the padded mat. He deftly removes the previous one, folds it over, and lobs it in the waste bin, and, much as Will wishes he could deny it, the change comes as an immense relief. To have your crotch freed of the soggy garment that reeks of piss and your own filth is a privilege one cannot fully appreciate until you are left marinating in it for five consecutive hours, while your genitals itch and burn.

That one wasn’t even a punishment. If he recalls correctly, it was to ‘acclimatize’ Will to his new lifestyle. And he guesses it worked.

By the time Hannibal came to replace the nightmarish package, Will was sobbing into one of his teddy bears - watery snot running down his upper lip and into his mouth with the sting of salt - and too tired to fight when a bendy rubber teat slithered between his open jaw, both to distract and soothe.

Every dispassionate touch was searing on his irritated skin, and the ensuing rash took almost a week to clear.

He didn’t protest at the thick cream that smothered his genitals and squished as he moved, nor did he put up a fuss when Hannibal snuggled him to his chest later that evening and sang beautiful Lithuanian lullabies. As the smarting inflammation lessened and he reached up to knead the back of the man‘s immaculately combed hair, Will felt so cherished and loved, and his remaining limbs were so heavy, and it was an unexpected horror to realise he felt grateful.

Now, as he feels a cold wipe cover his shaft and listens to Hannibal‘s melodic humming as he works, Will is reminded of that smouldering torture, stomach-churning in its simplicity. He doesn’t want to be left like that again. Or, worse, punished for real.

Almost as if he can read the thoughts scrolling down Will’s mind, a flash of something unidentifiable flickers through Hannibal‘s impassive eyes and his fingers skim across his abdomen, giving Will a stern look as he begins to squirm (the one that says, in no uncertain terms, just how absurd his quest for independence is), before he continues wiping him clean with practised ease.

After a sprinkling of fresh baby powder that makes Will cough a little, he tapes on a bulky new diaper that widens the gap between his thighs dramatically, securing the tabs and patting his cushioned bottom almost unthinkingly. He then raises his puppy up into a comforting hold, who hold himself stiffly, anxiously, willing away the blush that dusts his cheeks.

Even after all this time, it’s still mortifying to be a fully grown man who wets himself and waits until someone else comes along to freshen him up.

“Shall I prepare your bottle? Or would you prefer to have your lunch first?”

Will gives a lazy approximation of a shrug.

“Milk, it is,” Hannibal decides, “It appears Daddy has a fussy baby on his hands today. An early naptime might be ideal, what do you think?”

He doesn’t answer.

God, can’t he just be an unwilling participant, without being forced into these little interactions? At least then he doesn’t have to stay _here_. He can exile himself to his mind. It’s so easy to get lost there.

But Hannibal would surely see his eyes dim and it would never end well for him. He needs his baby boy with him, experiencing and hating every step along the way. Otherwise, what’s the point?

Before long, a repulsively childish purple bib that reads  _Cereal Killer_ is fastened around Will’s neck, even while he futilely twists his head. (He bets Hannibal _loves_ that, just like a real tot.)

Hannibal expertly massages along Will’s jaw-line, persuading his gritted teeth to loosen long enough for him to push a firm, rubber nipple beyond his lips, then gives the plastic a gentle squeeze, so that a spurt of sweetened milk is shot into his mouth. He swallows quickly, then has to carry on steadily suckling, catching every last drop as Hannibal tilts the bottle, lest his forgiving mood vanish, as it has been known to do in an instant.

“There,” Hannibal breathes when he’s finished, setting the empty bottle aside, “Was that so gruelling?”

Will’s lips thin. He feels his brows cave downwards into a brutal scowl, so close to pouting that it scares him.

The older man tsks. “Now, William. None of that.” He carefully eases Will into the crib and tucks the blankets around him, securing the harness over his middle and popping it into place. The pad of his thumb comes to rest over the deep creases of Will‘s glower, stroking tenderly. “You know how Daddy detests your frowny face. It makes him so awfully sad.”  
  
“Gonna...gonna g-get…it…next time,” Will grits, eyes blazing with determination. The drugs that laced his rich, filling beverage are swiftly taking effect.

A suggestion of a smile graces Hannibal’s lips.

"I know you'll try, sweet pea," he soothes, dropping a kiss onto his forehead and smoothing down his hair.

And Will clamps his jowl so forcefully, he’s surprised his teeth don’t fissure.

**…**

The words are out before he can think twice about it.

"H-had b-bad dream, Da-Daddy," Will stammers when Hannibal enters the room, robe hastily drawn and feet strikingly bare.

Tears drip from Will’s lashes and his chin box quivers as he struggles to stay strong like a big boy. And the fact that a thought such as that invades his mind at all, pisses Will off to no end.

And Hannibal, the bastard, playing his role to a tee, plucks him from his crib and sympathetically coos, "Aww, come here, sweetheart. Shh, it's okay. I've got you, Daddy’s got you. Daddy will keep you safe," before cradling the boy close and bouncing him gently.

He extracts the boy’s paci from his pocket and pushes it against Will’s clattering teeth. Instinctively, he latches on, wrapping his lips around the teat and sucking furiously. He needs to stabilize the violent trembling inside of him, and if this is what it takes to calm his nerves, so be it. Anything to take the edge off.

Slowly, his cries die down and become more croaky and whiny, lower and lower until they fade off completely. He drapes himself over Hannibal’s shoulder and fists the back of his nightshirt, allowing himself to be bounced and rocked to the older man’s content. A large, consoling hand to engulfs his lower back and rubs in broad circles and throws in the odd pat. It’s sort of…nice.

Will’s lids flutter and fuse, an inviting fog descends on his mind.

"Such a sleepy puppy," Daddy is murmuring. A pleasurable hand cards repeatedly through his thick curls. "So terribly, terribly sleepy." The quiet voice is positively hypnotising, and Will does the only possible thing.

He closes his eyes and goes lax in his grip.

Even as the boy in his arms goes limp and the tension drains from his body, Hannibal continues to luxuriate in the closeness, and whispers sweet nothings in his ear.

"Nothing's going to hurt you, baby," he'd sworn, but that wasn't quite true.

**…**

Hannibal sits crossed-legged on the floor building blocks with the little one, who stacks them as high as he possibly can and waits with bated breath for his masterpiece to collapse in on itself.

It's not long before the sound of crashing ensues and Hannibal strokes his fluffy hair and praises him in soft, baby-tones, to Will’s reluctant pleasure.

**…**

He is confined to a small playpen with plumped-up cushions arranged around the sides and thick blankets laid out on the floor. The bars are not high, they’re well-spaced and narrow. He can stick his hand right through and maybe even unlock the gate from within. But none of this matters.

The point is not to keep him trapped, or limit his movements. But, rather, to create a safe space for him to nap. That’s all.

It doesn’t matter that he‘s in Hannibal‘s office and Hannibal has just excused himself for a private phone call, or that he has ample opportunity to make his escape, were he so inclined. It doesn’t make a damn difference that _nothing_ bar his disfigured body is keeping him here, because he can’t run, and even if he could, he’d have nowhere to run to. Hannibal made sure of that.

Not that Will has any right to complain. He’s only got himself to blame.

After all, he’d dug his own grave, didn't he?

And in the end…it was easy.

If he’d had no gaps in his life for Hannibal to fill, no open, yearning space to be satiated somehow. If he hadn’t cried for help with every swallowed word and retiring glance, maybe he might have had a chance.

He wouldn’t be subjected to convenient mutilation, with every scrap of independence torn from him. Wouldn’t be left as this weak, pitiful creature, who smiles when Hannibal’s face appears above him and soils himself without realising.

He wouldn’t be lying here, totally alone, in this body of a stranger.

The fist around his chest tightens and tightens until it‘s damn near excruciating. But even as he sucks in a breath and tries to feel nothing, he feels his heart - through his throat, in his stomach, along his wrist - and somehow it’s still beating.

**…**

Hannibal carries him whenever he can. He likes to have Will dangling from his knee, slumped back against his shoulder, or with his cheek squashed to his chest, while the older man braces his back. If he could, Will imagines he would cart him everywhere.

On perfectly average Tuesday, he perches Will on his lap in his office and cuddles his little one close.

"Look at you,” he applauds, doting smile fixed in place, “Sitting up at Daddy's desk and helping with all sorts of wonderful work. Isn’t this nice?"

He provides a few sheets of blank paper for his pup to scribble on - all under the guise of 'assisting' Hannibal with some very tough work, of course. Will rolls his pacifier on his tongue and falteringly drags his crayon across the page, creating sloppy loop after loop, not caring about keeping up the charade, and wondering too late if Hannibal will be irked by his untidy scribbling.

After a while, Hannibal glances down at the jumbled up squiggles and to Will’s intense surprise, he heaps on the praise in his best, cloying, patronizing pitch, "Good job, puppy. Well done. This is marvellous. You're such a good helper. You really do love your colour blue, don’t you?"

It is such a tremendous change to be praised for doing nothing rather than being taken for granted after figuring out everything, that Will finds himself relishing Hannibal’s dazzling smile - so charming and genuine and ridiculously, terrifically proud - and then, without his permission, behind his pacifier his lips are curving and the pacifier itself is frantically bobbing, and, all of a sudden, he’s smiling, too.

**…**

He wakes in a pool of sweat and it takes a full minute for his mind to register that it’s not blood.

For the walls of his room to shift back into focus and make sense again.

The sheets are tangled in a sweaty heap, the nightlight softly shines, his floppy-eared, stuffed doggie, Snuffles, lies overturned on his side, a goofy smile sown into its fabric for the rest of its life.

A heave of pain cuts into the fringes of his sockets, cramping around his temples and carving out a hollow pit between his brows. Will kneads his eyes with a rough heel of his hand and narrowly draws in a breath. It swells behind his eyes, prickles on his taste buds, and shovels unease into the chasm of his stomach. It is a chunky, piercing pressure that crackles in the air and threatens to swallow Will whole.

Will struggles to snuff out the dread that slithers out from the darkest depths of his gut and licks his nerves with tingling awareness. His muscles are tense and raring for action, his phantom leg jiggling as he stares at the ceiling, unable to keep still or think straight for the life of him.

He gags and dry retches and sobs until Dr. Lecter comes to placate him.

Hannibal scoops the youngster up and bounces him lightly to appease his cries, uttering indulgent words of reassurance, "Shh…shh…It's alright, it's alright. Daddy's here now," while his pup sniffles and hiccups, burrowing his wet face in his neck.

"Daddy," Will burbles amongst other slurred rambling, clutching tightly at his expensive tie and shaking his head distraughtly, "No go, Daddy." He shivers, whether through the aftershocks of his nightmare, or the possibly of Hannibal leaving him, he’s not sure.

“There’s no need to fret, sweat pea. Daddy’s not going anywhere.”

Will wields the tie and rubs it between his fingers, takes advantage of the sleek texture that comforts him so completely, for reasons he’s not yet ready to admit quite yet.“Not Daddy’s tie, dear,” Hannibal gently chides, prying off his grip. “Let’s see if we can get you something more appropriate, hmm? How does that sound?”

He settles him on his hip and the terrified youngster binds his arms around Hannibal’s neck in a choke-hold, pushing his face into the hollow of his throat with a sleepy snuffle and loud sniff. He carries Will down to the kitchen, where he empties some milk from the carton into a pan as the boy whimpers and tiredly nuzzles into his neck. It’s so darling.

Once the liquid is suitably heated, he pours it into a blue sippy cup and screws on the lid.

"Here you go, sweetheart," he says softly, rubbing his shoulder to get his attention. He passes the child his sippy cup. "Daddy thought you might feel better with some nice, warm milk in your tummy."

"Thank you."

“Thank-you…?”

“Daddy,” Will quietly supplies, grasping the yellow handle and tipping it back. Indeed, it is wonderful, chasing away the last of the tremors and swelling his belly with pleasant warmth as his Daddy slips his hand under his pyjama top and massages his tummy kindly.

Slowly draining the creamy contents, he inattentively paws at his Daddy’s shirt and fiddles with the buttons, peeping up at him out of the corner of his eye. He can’t look for long, though. Hannibal’s bland features are too pleased, his brown eyes too keen as he scrutinizes the motions of Will’s throat with every swallow. Not to mention, the quirking of his lip and relentless rubbing of his hand on his stomach, which Will’s positive must be creepily correlated.

Once he’s finished, Will blinks almost fuzzily, blue eye's half-lidded and unfocused. His grip on the cup goes slack and Hannibal knowingly extracts it, before it can fall to the floor. Will is on the verge of sleep when he jerks himself awake, breaths quickening once more.

Hannibal frowns. “Will, dear, you can go back to sleep. I’ll be here in the event that you have another nightmare.”

“Not…,” he stifles a yawn, “Not tired.”

“You’re exhausted,” he challenges, “Here. This will help.” From his pocket, he produces an innocent-looking pacifier.

But Will knows better.

Spit fizzes forward at the prospect of the reassuring teat and it only makes Will more unwilling. He’s become so dependant on those damn things; He has one in his mouth nearly every moment of every day. He’s starting to _like_ them.

With a scowl that shows just how delighted he is with the situation, he asserts, "Not a baby."

"You're my baby," Hannibal utters simply, gaze steady. "Or did you forget so soon?”

He shakes his head, trying and failing to ignore the creeping sensation that he‘s walking on egg shells. Will swallows so thickly, he‘s sure Hannibal can hear it.

“I’d rather not.”

“Then it is unfortunate, my dear, that you don’t have a choice.”

Peeking up from beneath heavy lashes, Will is silent for a long time.

Hannibal’s expression is hard. Unyielding. If he doesn’t play nice now, there will be hell to pay for his misconduct later. What? He doesn’t know. And he doesn’t want to find out.

This is the same man who chopped off his legs from the knee down to hammer home how little power Will has in this relationship, to drive him insane with helplessness, to keep him under his thumb, right where he wants him.

Cautiously, uncertainly, he opens his mouth and accepts the pacifier, settling the familiar teat on his tongue. The only sounds are of docile, rubber squeaks and soft slurps as he shuffles and curls up under his father‘s chin, who snakes an arm around his torso and hugs him securely.

His brain short-circuits, his body yearns for the comfort of this man, and Hannibal places a hand on the back of Will’s head and holds him there, petting his hair while he hides a smile.

**…**

Jolting awake at three in the morning, Will almost has heart attack as his eyes adjust and he makes out the sinister outline standing by the crib in the muted light and dark, slitted eyes staring into his.

"Hi, there, sleepyhead," Hannibal murmurs, obviously pleased by his newfound state of awareness, leaning over the railing to plant a kiss amid his hair, with a scarily fond smile hovering his lips. “Ready?” _Ready for what?_ Will wonders, before a funny feeling rushes through his gut and he‘s momentarily airborne, tossed up into the air with a grunting, “Uppsy daisy,” before he’s back in the safety of Hannibal’s arms.

He takes him over to the rocking chair, where he pushes off with a single jerk of the foot, peacefully moving up and down at a relaxed pace.

"You're so clever, aren't you? Daddy’s special little genius, isn't that right? Big boy Will was such a silly billy, wasn’t he? Thinking he could ever take you away from me." His breaths are fast, thin. Hugely-dilated eyes sheltering something wild.

Will swallows dryly.

If there is one thing he’s learned, it is that he’s not the only one beleaguered by night terrors. A fine tremor runs through Dr. Lecter’s right arm.

The boy in his arms slides his thumb into his mouth, missing the solid presence of his paci, and worms around to get comfy; the adult meekly staying silent, because he can almost choke on the stench of danger. Burnt pine and sickly sweet smoke soaking into his nostrils.

“Sorry, Daddy,” he offers, biting down hard.

“It’s not your fault, sweetie. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

Hannibal exhales roughly and keeps petting his hair until he nods off hours later, arms like steel wound around Will’s waist, pinning him there.

**…**

He’s laughing and he’s breathless and his face is red, and everything’s hilarious.

“Is that funny, is it? Daddy loves playing with his puppy. So yummy and helpless. There is nothing Daddy loves more in the entire world than caring for his helpless puppy.”

Hoisted up onto his knee, Hannibal holds Will’s hands in his. He joggles his leg and grins brightly,  
clapping Will’s hands together for him. With each thunderous slap, he puffs his cheeks and releases the air with a juvenile sound directly into Will’s face like that of an explosion, and Will can’t help but giggle and grin from ear to ear.

Even as, deep down, he fears that someday he’ll open his eyes, groggy and off-guard, and reach for the bars to haul himself upwards, only to find his hands in Tupperware containers down in the freezer.

**…**

This week Will suffered an entirely new humiliation.

He clicks.

 _Click, click, clicks_ his tongue, tapping the roof of his mouth in agitation until Hannibal fetches his pacifier for him. If not found within an unspecified amount of time, he’ll cry, he’ll wail, he’ll pound his fists on the floor. He can’t stop until he gets what he wants, and, seemingly out of nowhere, his paci is magically there.

He hums when he’s happy - during meals, splashing water at bath time, cuddled next to Daddy - and the worst part is, he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it until Hannibal’s beam alerts him.

**…**

“Don’t want bath, Daddy. Tired.”

Organizing a composed exterior with a smooth forehead and a calm, set smile, Hannibal crouches down in front of Will, gently shakes his shoulder, and murmurs, “Come now. No whining. Be a big, strong boy for Daddy.”

“I _am_ strong,” comes the cranky mumble. He fists his eyes.

“Not today, I’m afraid.”

“Ow, Daddy,” Will frowns, rubbing his chest and sniffling, “That really hurt. My feelings are very sore.”

Hannibal’s smile broadens. “Are they?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, dear. In that case, Daddy’s very sorry, sweetheart,” Hannibal sound sincere, “He didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

Will cracks an eyelid and glances up.

He’s got that look on his face. That goddamn look where his eyes go butterscotch soft and his lips spread, and the tension lifts, and he’s gazing at Will like he’s the centre of his goddamn world.

“We must get you cleaned up, though," he persists, weaving fingers through the boy’s dense curls. "Look how messy you are. Such a messy boy!" As he speaks, he scoops Will up and balances him on his hip, before striding down to bathroom, where he turns the tap and inserts the plug. Water gushes, a cloud of hot steam shaping as he adds a drop of lavender in the hopes of making his little one wonderfully relaxed and sleepy before bed and dips in a finger to test the temperature.

It doesn't take long for the tub to fill, so he shuts off the water and dumps in a selection of toys, mostly sea-related. Squeaky whales, turtles, a blue and yellow submarine. Maintaining a carefully-selected theme.

He undresses his baby boy and lowers him into the lukewarm water, before lathering a washcloth with scented soap and lovingly scrubbing his skin, while he plays. He washes around his shoulders and down his back, and it is with a glimmer of satisfaction that he strays down to his nether regions without Will jumping or noticing anything out of the ordinary.

After a while, Will’s lids droop and he dozes off, dripping curls glued to his forehead, sucking a wrinkly thumb and clutching a rubber duckie. He doesn’t fight as Hannibal pats him down, delicately towel dries his hair, stretches a crinkly diaper over his thighs and buttons him up in a soft, footed sleeper. The worst thing in his mind is that he doesn’t like having to relinquish his damp digit and keep switching thumbs while Hannibal attempts to steer his arms into the sleeves.

“That’s it, puppy. Go to sleep. It’s alright. Daddy’s got you.”

The belitting baby-talk used to bother him, but now he‘s comfortable with it. Craves it, even. Aches with the need to please. For the sweet whisper of his Daddy’s approval.

He sits back passively as his thumb is traded for his paci, and gleefully hums around the plug as he is picked up and cuddled close.

**…**

The breeze feels good teasing strands of his hair. They’re sitting on the grass atop a large blanket, facing each other.

Will’s hands are on Daddy’s face and he’s smushing his cheeks together.

“R’ ‘oo ‘early finish‘d?” he asks distortedly, lips determined to smile despite being compressed.

Will quickly splays his hand over Hannibal's mouth to halt his speech, who decides to lightly nip the sticky fingers.

Choking on giggles, the youngster yanks his hand away and shrieks, "Stop it!"

"But I’m so incredibly hungry and you are much too tasty!" Hannibal tells him helplessly, leaning in close and teasingly snapping his teeth. "Cute enough to eat, wouldn’t you say? I may _have_ to gobble you up someday.”

All of a sudden, his hands dart to Will’s sides and attacking them with an onslaught of tickling.

"D-don't go-gobble me, Daddy!" Will pleads, snorting at his father's silliness and wriggling away. When Hannibal reacts by pretending to munch on his cute, little nose, he schools his features into a stern, earnest frown and wags a finger, admonishing, "No, bad Daddy!"

Needless to say, that same finger soon ends up ensnared in the older man's mouth.

Will laughs harder.

**…**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think.


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